


Sleep to Dream

by Zilchtastic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lyrium Withdrawal, Masturbation, Mild Smut, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilchtastic/pseuds/Zilchtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to stop these thoughts. They're more torment than anything the lyrium withdrawal can throw at him. He'll take the nightmares, he'll take the aches, he'll take the nausea and the trembling and the days when he can barely get out of bed. He'll take it all and worse, if he can just banish the wicked thoughts before he does something to embarrass them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Cullen was my romance in the first playthrough of the game. He's just so sweet; I had to write him a little something. Sort-of follows the romance, sort-of doesn't.

The nightmares are always terrible, without the lyrium.

Cullen finds himself working long, thankless hours. He finds himself walking the battlements, patrolling for danger as if he alone will spot Corypheus swooping in on his blasted dragon, as if he alone can protect all of Skyhold. He finds himself sitting at his desk, staring down at reports and paperwork until his vision blurs and sleep screeches at the edge of his mind. Eventually, he succumbs.

The dreams make him desperate for morning. The waking world, the sun filtering through the still-unrepaired hole in his roof, the sound of activity in the courtyard. He aches for these things more than he aches for sleep.

The Inquisitor is all concern, and it embarrasses him and pleases him at the same time. He finds himself tongue-tied, rubbing the back of his neck like a schoolboy when she tries to fuss over him. _I'm fine,_ he always assures her. _I'm coping. I promise you, my duties will not be compromised._

"It's not your duty I'm worried about," she tells him, and the look in her wide green eyes always makes his heart lurch and stutter fitfully.

She is in his dreams, sometimes. Those are the worst. He can see her just before she falls to a demon's claws or a red Templar's sword. He can watch, in excrutiating detail, as the spray of blood hits the cold ground, as her eyes go wide and glassy, as her full lips part in a last gasp. He wakes screaming from those dreams, raging, thinking _No, no, you can't have her. I won't let you have her._

He aches, all the time. The feeling seems to radiate from his bones, the pain so deep that no elfroot potion or healer can touch it. He ignores it, because it's nothing compared to the nightmares, or the way his hands shake uncontrollably sometimes, or the constant thrum of nausea that rides at the back of his throat. He ignores it all, because he must.

The Inquisitor watches him. He wishes she wouldn't. He also wishes she'd never stop.

She brings him tea, some herbal concoction the Dalish apparently use against nausea. It tastes like springtime in a cup, and he drinks it without comment. When she smiles at him, it warms him more than the drink.

She brings him apples from the kitchens. They're easy to eat, quick and tart, and the taste of them makes him wonder terrible things, like _I wonder if she'd taste like this under my tongue_. He hates himself for such unchaste thoughts about their leader, their _savior_ , their Herald of Andraste. But the self-loathing never stops him for long, and he's learned to associate the taste of apples with the sweetness he imagines between her thighs.

He dreams of that, too, and wakes hard and wanting and guilty, so guilty. He refuses to touch himself, to pollute thoughts of her any further, but his strength has limits and his will is beginning to fray.

She sits on his desk one afternoon, just resting on the edge, and it takes all his willpower not to throw her down on it right then and there. He imagines sweeping everything aside-- papers, ink, bottles-- and taking her right there, hard and fast. His eyes stay glued to the slight, slim curve of her hip. He cannot tear them away.

"Cullen?" Her voice is concerned, always so concerned. "Are you all right?"

He apologizes, of course. Distracted, that's all. The withdrawal, the dull ache behind his eyes, the haziness coating his brain like wool. She understands, all sympathy, and doesn't question him even when his eyes wander up and down her slender legs. He can picture those legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him in as he--

_No. No._ He has to stop these thoughts. They're more torment than anything the lyrium withdrawal can throw at him. He'll take the nightmares, he'll take the aches, he'll take the nausea and the trembling and the days when he can barely get out of bed. He'll take it all and worse, if he can just banish the wicked thoughts before he does something to embarrass them both.

That night he dreams of willowy figures bathed in moonlight, of apples filled with blood. Of smooth, pale skin, unmarred and silken-soft, of hands lit by pale green fire. He watches her fall, dying, watches her mouth words of regret at him: _Why didn't you touch me when you had the chance?_ He wakes soaked in sweat, panting, panicked.

It takes nearly half an hour for him to pull himself out of bed. The shaking is so bad that he stays in his office, door closed for the entire day. He snaps at his lieutenants and he snaps at the messengers who arrive with papers they expect him to _read_. The ache behind his eyes is a constant throbbing.

She slips through his door late that night, a cup of tea in hand. Her expression is wary, nervous, and almost too much for him to bear. "Inquisitor," he greets her tightly, words almost cut off between his clenched teeth.

"I brought you this."

"I thank you, but I'll be fine. It's just been a long day."

"I know." Her eyes are sad, and he aches to see it. Eyes so beautiful should be laughing, he thinks, never sad. "This is something... Well, something for sweet dreams." She sets the cup on his desk with a quiet _clink_. "I thought maybe it would help."

He's grateful and ashamed at once. _I don't deserve your concern_ , he thinks. _I don't deserve your eyes on me like that._

He takes a cautious sip. The tea tastes herbal, slightly floral. There's the green note of elfroot and the mild sweetness of something he can't identify, something that makes him think of delicate flowers in the woods. He wonders if she picked these herbs herself, and realizes that she probably did.

"I don't--" He almost tells her he doesn't need her caring, but the words stick in his throat. Her expression is too hopeful, and he can't bear to watch it crumple. "I... Thank you," he says instead, sipping again at the tea. The sweetness fills his nose, rising with the steam.

She smiles, gentle, shy. She was a hunter, he reminds himself, a scout for her clan. She spent hours, _days_ alone. She took care of her people in the only way she knew how. And now she's taking care of him.

"Thank you," he says again, and he means it with all his heart.

He dreams that night of forests, dark but not foreboding. He dreams of the smell of trees and plants and soft earth. He dreams of thin streams of golden sunlight filtering through the branches, and of the soft whisper of the wind in the leaves.

He wakes, and for the first time in weeks feels refreshed.

He smiles easier, laughs at the war table when Leliana makes some joke. He remembers to eat lunch and can't recall the last time something as simple as bread and meat and cheese tasted so good. He finishes up his work, and for once feels satisfied that he's done good today. When he ventures into the garden for some fresh air, Dorian catches him, invites him to a round of chess. To his own surprise, Cullen is happy to play.

The Inquisitor approaches them, smiling and shy, worried she's interrupting but obviously curious. When Dorian excuses himself, Cullen invites her to take his place.

She bites her lip, but she's still smiling. "You'll have to teach me the rules. It's not a game many Dalish play."

She listens intently, learns quickly, asks the right questions in the right places. Teaching her to play chess is a simple joy. Their first game is slow and thoughtful, but after a while she seems to relax, and teases him about her impending victory. He doesn't deliberately let her win; it's just that his thoughts go all fuzzy around the edges while he watches her think, while he watches her slim hands move pieces around the board. He's never felt so delighted to be losing before.

When she tells him _We should spend more time together_ , his heart leaps into his throat. "I... would like that," he says, not sure if it's the right thing, but so off-guard he can't even feign disinterest.

"Me too," she says, so serious, so honest. Cullen feels something go warm in the pit of his stomach, something that feels like delight and relief and victory all rolled into one.

"You said that," he murmurs, almost to prove it to himself. She did. He heard it. She...

She looks at him, eyes a little wide, less hunter and more startled doe. There's color high on her cheeks, the rosy blush that shows so easily against her pale skin. His heart leaps again. "We should... finish our game, right? My turn?"

She beats him handily; he teases her about beginner's luck, about another game some time to enact his revenge. She smiles her gentle smile, and the Inquisition seems so far away, so distant. Cullen leans over the board, pretending to pick apart his failed strategy; over the scent of the garden he can smell the scent of _her_ , tart and sweet like apples, mellow and green like elfroot. It makes him feel dizzy, almost, and he wishes suddenly that he could know the smell of her deeper, that he could press his face between her breasts and just breathe her in.

He hopes his thoughts don't show on his face. He can't... He doesn't want to...

But he does. He so very much does.

He dreams that night of _her_ , slim and delicate, lovely like a flower, and in his dream she's not the Inquisitor, not the Herald of Andraste. She's just a woman, a woman who _wants_ him, and he kisses her with all the pent-up need of a thousand little smiles and gestures and looks.

He wakes hard, aching, wanting. He takes himself in hand, and for once the guilt doesn't come. The pleasure is so sharp it almost _hurts_. Cullen loses himself in it, and lets himself think of her. When he spills over the edge of his climax, he's thinking of her name, her _real_ name, and the smell of apples and tea.

The withdrawal doesn't leave him entirely; the aches remain, the bad days wax and wane in a hazy blur. But between them are bright days, ripe with sunshine, filled with thoughts that he no longer refuses, thoughts of her. The nightmares still come, but they balance just a little now with dreams of cool forests and soft smiles.

She still brings him tea. He drinks it down and thinks that one day, he'll kiss her, and then he'll finally know if she tastes as good as she smells.

One day. He hopes it will be soon.


End file.
